


Paris, After

by irisbleufic



Series: Playing for Keeps [7]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 05, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Art History, Canon Jewish Character, Celebrations, Conversations, Don’t copy to another site, Drama, Established Relationship, Europe, France (Country), Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hedonism, Honeymoon, Humor, Jewish Character, M/M, Nerdiness, POV Alternating, POV Bruce Wayne, Paris (City), Probably Some Hidden References to Batman: Europa Before This Thing Is Done, References to Canon, Season/Series 05, The Rogues (DCU) As Family, Tourism, Travel, World Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-06 12:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18388025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: Jeremiah didn’t think he was causing a spectacle by speaking to the wait-staff on both his and Bruce’s behalf every time they wanted something else or needed a coffee refill, but the look on Bruce’s face suggested otherwise. Residual hangover and jet-lag didn’t explain it.“This is the best breakfast we’ve ever had,” Jeremiah said, reaching for the sugar, “and you look like you’re not enjoying it. I’d tell you to smile more, but everyone knows that’s passé.”At that, Bruce sighed into his demitasse. “You speak French. It sounds fluent. I had no idea.”“I don’t know everything about you,” Jeremiah countered.





	1. Something Old, Something New

Even once Olga had departed with Martín and locked the front entrance, Bruce stayed where he was. Jeremiah’s skin, warm beneath Bruce’s lips, smelled like lavender and clove cologne.

“Are you going to hang there and kiss my neck all night,” Jeremiah sighed, turning his head so Bruce’s next peck hit the corner of his mouth, “or are you going to tell me about your day?”

“In my defense, we’ve only been married twenty-four hours,” Bruce said. “Honeymoon period.”

Jeremiah had insisted that all he wanted for his birthday was a Cartier platinum band for his left ring finger, and _maybe_ one for Bruce so they’d match. Bruce had taken a hint and arranged for the proper civic officials to be present while Harley and Ivy witnessed.

Bruce had ordered the bands’ interior engravings such that they would echo the traditional format of his parents’: _BTW to JVW 5-21-21_  and _JVW to BTW 5-21-21_. Something old, something new.

Jeremiah’s name-change wasn’t official yet, at least not on paper. He’d said he would be patient as long as they could ditch their work plans for the next few weeks in favor of the trip to Paris he’d been promised over tea more than a year ago.

“Martín noticed this the instant he arrived,” Jeremiah said, removing his ring, idly toying with it.

Bruce let go of Jeremiah, took a few moments to remove his shoes, and climbed over to join him.

“Did you have a middle name before?” Bruce asked, placing the band back on Jeremiah’s finger.

“My mother took _her_ mother’s surname because she thought it sounded better for stage-work,” Jeremiah said. “That’s how I ended up sharing a name with my maternal grandmother—halfway dignified—instead of with my soup-slopping uncle.”

Bruce nodded, listening, working his arm between Jeremiah and the sofa so he could hold him.

Jeremiah rested his forehead against Bruce’s temple, pressing a soft, shivery kiss to his cheek.

“To answer your question, though, no,” he finally concluded. “We didn’t get middle names.”

“Kind of you to keep Valeska in your mother’s memory, at least in some capacity,” Bruce said.

“Not just in hers,” said Jeremiah, gravely, “lest I forget by what means you came into my life.”

Turning his head, Bruce kissed him questioningly. _What do you need right now? What can I do?_

“We should have dinner and finish packing,” Jeremiah said when they broke apart, sliding his hand from Bruce’s belly down to rest between his legs, “but I want to welcome you home properly.” At the involuntary jerk of Bruce’s hips, he pressed with the heel of his hand. “Today was more stressful for you than it was for me. I could—” he rubbed a slow circle, making Bruce flush hot with want “—take your mind off things.”

“You asked to hear about my day,” Bruce replied, shifting appreciatively beneath the touch.

“Looked like you and Alfred were being civil,” said Jeremiah, slowing his pace, “when I passed by.”

Bruce nodded, moving his hand from Jeremiah’s hip to his inner thigh. “We’re speaking again.”

“An encouraging sign,” Jeremiah murmured breathily, nuzzling Bruce’s neck. “Is that all?”

“All that needs saying for now,” Bruce said, realizing that Jeremiah was harder than he was.

Jeremiah caught the chain of Bruce’s pendant between his teeth on accident. “ _Mmm_. Yes.” 

Disengaging carefully, Bruce maintained steady eye contact with Jeremiah as he pushed back the coffee table. He nudged Jeremiah’s knees apart and knelt between them, stroking up and down Jeremiah’s thighs. Taking the time to read his reaction was crucial.

“If you knew,” Jeremiah said roughly, running his thumbs up Bruce’s jaw, “how early on I was thinking about your mouth, how _often_ I wanted…”

Bruce leaned forward, smiling. It wasn’t unusual for Jeremiah to frame his desires in terms of suggesting he enact them on Bruce first.

“Probably as early as I was imagining what you’d sound like if I blew you,” he said, unfastening Jeremiah’s trousers. “What’s your point?”

“Never mind,” Jeremiah replied, head already tipped back against the supple leather of the sofa. 

“No, keep going,” Bruce said, unbuttoning Jeremiah’s underwear. He slipped two fingers inside, rubbing the heated softness of him until Jeremiah closed his eyes and shuddered. “I want to hear everything you thought about during those weeks we worked together—between the day we met and the night the city got cut off. During all of those walks we took in the woods to give you a break, with the backs of our hands brushing.”

Jeremiah licked his lips as Bruce continued to touch him. “How often I wanted to kiss you, just like—like you admitted you wanted to, across my desk.” He sucked in his breath, swallowing a gasp as Bruce carefully drew out his erection. “ _Bruce_. I thought about you coming around to my side, pinning me to the wall, touching me like this to—” his voice broke when Bruce stroked him in earnest “—to get me off while we kissed.”

Bruce ignored how fiercely he wanted to climb into Jeremiah’s lap, grind him into the cushions, and make them both shatter in a heartbeat. He worked back Jeremiah’s pale foreskin, lapping away the dampness that had already gathered at the tip.

“I thought about sitting on the desk while you did this to me as often as I imagined doing it to you.”

Jeremiah squirmed, his grasp tight on Bruce’s shoulders, panting harshly as Bruce sucked him in.

“Do I sound—” he whimpered, cupping Bruce’s jaw again, his other hand urgent at Bruce’s nape “—the way you hoped I might?”

Bruce concentrated on what he was doing for the next several minutes, until it was clear that Jeremiah couldn’t hold back any longer. The salt-surge at the back of Bruce’s tongue wasn’t a shock, not with how desperately Jeremiah was moaning his name.

“You sound like yourself,” Bruce said once he’d used a handful of tissues from the coffee table to clean them, “so, yes. Dinner?"


	2. Everything You Like Best

Packing for a several-week trip abroad was so far outside Jeremiah’s previous experience that he’d swiftly grown flustered. Indecisive at how best to fill two large suitcases and a three-hangered garment bag, he’d given up and lain down. 

They weren’t even set to fly out until early evening the next day, so he’d decided it could wait.

Bruce—already packed, and in a _single_ large suitcase—had brushed Jeremiah’s forehead, covered him with the duvet, and told him to relax. Forty minutes of dozing to Bruce’s comforting background noise later, Jeremiah had felt Bruce crawl into bed.

“We’re taking everything you like best,” Bruce had said by way of explanation, yawning as Jeremiah rolled over to sprawl against him. “Just in case.”

Nodding drowsily, sated from what they’d done before dinner, Jeremiah had nodded. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Bruce had murmured, sounding ready to fall asleep. “You’ve never flown before?”

“Once,” Jeremiah had replied, closing his eyes. “School trip to the West Coast. I was twelve.”

He hadn’t remained awake long enough to hear Bruce’s response, assuming he’d even given one.

They’d slept late, made brunch in the kitchen, and sent their luggage off with the staff Bruce had hired to coordinate for them at Gotham International. Their passports had gone ahead of them, and even their security clearance on arrival would be conducted in private.

Damp from the shower, Jeremiah pondered what that might entail as he dressed. He chose his plaid Venzano blazer, staid with its navy background. That paired with grey trousers, a white collared shirt, his metallic diamond-patterned tie, and matching waistcoat would do.

Bruce put Jeremiah’s tinted glasses on him—custom now, prescription, less of a strain on his eyes—and fussed over him in front of the bathroom mirror. Black attire, _always_ black, arresting in its subtle variety besides. Jeremiah tucked Bruce’s pendant beneath his collar.

Along with the glasses, Jeremiah had continued to wear broad-brimmed hats in public, much to _Gazette_ and _Daily Grind_ staff frustration. With Bruce’s perpetual security detail, they hadn’t been able to get close enough to do more than speculate on Jeremiah’s condition.

Valerie Vale, irritatingly persistent, had been the first reporter they’d even granted an interview.

After a late lunch and the gathering of last minute carry-on particulars, their ride to the airport was almost relaxing. For the duration, Bruce held Jeremiah’s hand. Only one of the TSA officers who screened them and handed back their identification stared too long. 

Jeremiah dealt with it by pushing his glasses into his hair, refusing to blink. He could unnerve nearly anyone.

Out the other side of the millimeter-wave scanner, resuming his hat was a relief. Half expecting a wait in the deserted private terminal, Jeremiah was surprised when Bruce, with both their carry-on cases over one shoulder, took his arm and kept them moving. 

The gate attendant that saw them out onto the tarmac didn’t make eye contact and left quickly.

Jeremiah stared at the extravagant feat of aircraft engineering before them. He’d memorized its unique profile and studied its inimitably flexible wings out of admiring curiosity, had even kept up-to-date on the flight tests as they’d been conducted over several years.

“You have a Bombardier Global,” Jeremiah said, too astonished to even properly react.

“It’s a 7500,” said Bruce. “The 8000-model upgrade didn’t make many alterations.”

“True,” Jeremiah agreed, dragging Bruce toward the jet in awe, “but for eighty million…”

“The only thing it doesn’t have is the walk-in shower option, but I guess that can be fixed.”

“Did you use their website to configure this?” Jeremiah asked, releasing Bruce’s hand so he could rush up the airstair unhindered. He bypassed the compact, gleaming kitchenette next to the crew’s suite and slowed in the broad central aisle as Bruce caught up. “I read about it.”

Bruce dumped their carry-ons in front of the first leather seat and nudged Jeremiah in the back.

“Take-off’s in half an hour, so pick what seats you’d like. You can explore once we’re in the air. We can have dinner in the entertainment suite.”

Jeremiah removed his hat and glasses, marveling as light filtered into the cleanly-designed, neutral-shaded cabin. There wasn’t much he’d change.

“Here,” Jeremiah said, making for the pair of front-facing, side-by-side seats just before the entertainment suite—which, at a glance, had the pillow-bedecked sofa and widescreen that the press videos had showcased. He took the window seat, set his glasses on the flat ledge below it, and handed Bruce his hat to stow. “Let’s eat here and do the tour after.”

Bruce sat down next to him, still smiling. “This will be the first time I’ve flown in it, actually.”

“I don’t even care what your old model was,” Jeremiah said, leaning back. “This will be ours.”

Lavish dinner at forty-thousand feet was _not_ something Jeremiah had experienced on the round-trip flights he’d taken as a child. It was as well-prepared as anything he, Olga, or their part-time weekday kitchen staff could put together, and the wine was from their cellar.

Afterward, they took what was left of their second bottle to the entertainment suite and sprawled on the divan. It was charming to find _Singin’ in the Rain_ among the film options, and even more charming that it was the only one they could agree on without ribbing each other.

Midway through, someone came and unobtrusively took the empty Sauternes bottle away. If they were startled to see their passengers shoeless, jacketless, and wrapped around each other so as not to fall off the cushions, they gave no indication.

“Five more hours,” Bruce whispered against Jeremiah’s neck as the plasma screen went dark.

Jeremiah yawned. They were risking seven-thirty in the morning arrival with a joint hangover.

“Show me the bedroom,” he said, cuddling closer. “I’m going to pass out there when you do.”

Bruce disentangled them and got to his feet, unsteadily tugging Jeremiah along. “Through here.”

Jeremiah tipped them both onto the still-made bed, scattering decorative pillows everywhere.


	3. No Need to Be Flashy

Bruce wasn’t handling his hangover. Still, as they made their way through the terminal to the exit at which their driver and luggage were waiting, he couldn’t help but notice the reactions they got from passers-by.

The real clue something was off was their oddly calm, disproportionate focus on Jeremiah.

“They’re not afraid of us,” Jeremiah said under his breath. “People at home are afraid of us.”

“I was starting to notice,” Bruce replied cautiously. “People here do recognize me, but…”

“They’re not looking at me the way most of Gotham does,” Jeremiah said, eyes darting to one side. “They’re…” He removed his glasses, breaking into a slow smile. “ _Hmmm_.”

The young woman who’d been watching them across a distance lowered her phone and waved.

“International press outlets also ran that interview we gave Vale about six months ago,” Bruce said pensively. “I wonder if here…”

“It’s a fashion thing, probably,” Jeremiah said, replacing his glasses. “She got in a few snaps.”

While they waited on the curb outside for the limousine to finish making a circuit, an androgynous thirtysomething with retro shades and bleach-blond hair, also waiting, did several double-takes. When their ride pulled up, they blew a kiss before getting in.

“Was that aimed at you or at me?” Bruce asked, relieved to see their driver a few vehicles back.

Jeremiah shrugged, releasing Bruce’s arm so that he could slip his arm around Bruce’s waist.

“I don’t care,” he said, wavering with exhaustion. “Flattering in either case, don’t you think?”

“I’m going to get you a knife,” Bruce said once they were safely inside the car. “Preference?”

“Functional,” Jeremiah said, removing his hat and glasses right away. “I liked the balisong, but there’s no need to be flashy. Maybe a switchblade.”

Bruce nodded, unbuttoning his blazer. “I was thinking the same thing. One for each of us.”

“No guns?” Jeremiah asked, gathering Bruce against his side. “My aim’s decent, but you’re a crack shot. Remember the day we eradicated Tetch?”

Settling in, Bruce rested his head against Jeremiah’s shoulder. “I’m sure Zsasz got the message.”

“I’d say it’s a wonder he survived, _but_ —pot, kettle, black,” Jeremiah said with nostalgic pride.

Fighting a wave of nausea, Bruce twisted and buried his face miserably against Jeremiah’s neck.

“Oh, love,” Jeremiah murmured, rubbing between Bruce’s shoulder blades. “My poor darling.”

“Did we bring that stuff Ivy gave us?” Bruce asked. “I know I did most of the packing, but…”

“I’ll look for it when get to the hotel,” Jeremiah said. “ _Shhh_. My head’s pounding, too.”

“Wouldn’t know it,” Bruce winced, winding his hand in Jeremiah’s tie. “Shit. This isn’t great.”

“Isn’t this what people our age are meant to do? Get trashed on honeymoons and spring break?”

“This isn’t trashed,” Bruce laughed, relaxing as it subsided. “You don’t want to see me trashed.”

“I saw it plenty,” Jeremiah said, stroking Bruce’s hair, kissing his forehead. “All over the news.”

Thirty minutes later, they staggered out of the limousine while an army of Hôtel de Crillon staff unloaded their things.

Staring, Jeremiah resumed his hat, but he stuck his glasses in his blazer.

“Monument historique,” he breathed. “Asking you to surprise me was…worth the risk.”

“Alfred told me that designation is just like…” Bruce rubbed his forehead. “Listed buildings?”

“In the United Kingdom, yes,” Jeremiah agreed faintly, studying the grand edifice in fascination.

“Come on,” Bruce said, tugging at Jeremiah’s sleeve. “Our stuff’s already inside. They’ll check us in.”

“Ange-Jacques Gabriel built this in the mid-eighteenth century,” Jeremiah protested, struggling to keep pace with him. “Do you know who he was?”

Bruce thanked the concierge who met them inside the door with their paperwork and told him they’d make their own way upstairs. “No?”

“Architect to King Louis XV,” Jeremiah said, unwillingly yanked into the elevator. “He built the matching palace next door, which is _also_ a hotel.”

As terrible as he felt on two counts, Bruce pinned him to the wall and kissed him to shut him up.

“We’re staying right on the Place de la Concorde,” Jeremiah pouted, “and you didn’t tell me.”

Bruce stepped back from him as the elevator shuddered to a halt. He gestured Jeremiah out.

“If you weren’t such a gentleman,” Jeremiah said, reading their key-sleeves for the suite designation, “I’d give you the silent treatment like before.”

“Flowers and trails of destruction aren’t silent treatment,” Bruce grumbled, hanging on his arm.

Once they were inside _La Peinture_ , Jeremiah didn’t take time to marvel at their surroundings. He made sure all of their luggage was present in the bedroom, dug out a vial, and then dragged Bruce into the opulent bathroom.

It was a relief to be manhandled out of his clothes, given Ivy’s herbs, and scrubbed down under a steaming shower with attentive, affectionate efficiency. Jeremiah let Bruce sit with his back against the tile while he washed himself.

Bruce was pleased when Jeremiah joined him on the shower floor, even with his knees up and arms braced against them so he could rest his forehead. The near-scorching water and the remedy were helping.

“This is big enough to lie down in,” Jeremiah said, running his palm over Bruce’s slick bicep. “How are you doing?”

“Sex, painkillers, sleep, room service,” Bruce muttered against his forearm, unfolding himself to let Jeremiah touch to his heart’s content, “in that order. I’m not budging for anything else. You’re doing all the work.”

“Of course,” Jeremiah soothed, running his palm from Bruce’s shoulder over to his collarbone. “You just sit back.”

Bruce wouldn’t have thought he’d find the notion of _anything_ arousing at the moment, but he wanted Jeremiah.

“You like this place?” he asked, turning his head at Jeremiah’s urging for a lingering kiss. “It was difficult to choose.”

“I’m disappointed we didn’t get to join the Mile-High Club, _but_ —” Jeremiah breathed against Bruce’s neck, cradling him, hot as the steam rising around them “—blowing you where Marie Antoinette bit the dust is a suitable consolation.”


	4. Before My Last Breath

Jeremiah didn’t think he was causing a spectacle by speaking to the wait-staff on both his and Bruce’s behalf every time they wanted something else or needed a coffee refill, but the look on Bruce’s face suggested otherwise. Residual hangover and jet-lag didn’t explain it.

“This is the best breakfast we’ve ever had,” Jeremiah said, reaching for the sugar, “and you look like you’re not enjoying it. I’d tell you to smile more, but everyone knows that’s passé.”

At that, Bruce sighed into his demitasse. “You speak French. It sounds fluent. I had no idea.”

“I don’t know everything about you,” Jeremiah countered. “Not yet. We’ve only been together a year and a half.”

“Just over two years,” Bruce said, pushing around his fruit, “if you count from the day we met.”

Pained to think his levity might have caused Bruce distress, Jeremiah reached across the table.

“Love, would you rather we counted from then? I’ll celebrate any number of anniversaries.”

Bruce squeezed Jeremiah’s hand, shrugging. “Our wedding anniversary’s going to be your birthday. The anniversary of our first meeting is _my_ birthday. Our first kiss was November, a year and a half ago, and so was…” He moodily took a bite. “See?”

 _Not this again_ , Jeremiah thought, masking his displeasure. _We’ve been over it far too many times._

“An anniversary per birthday suits,” he said instead. “Symmetrical. I remain fond of November.”

“Then we’ll mark them all,” Bruce said, disentangling their fingers so they could continue to eat.

Jeremiah concentrated on what was left of his avocado-and-redcurrant French toast, pondering.

“We haven’t discussed our schedule,” he said. “Yesterday wasn’t wasted, but there’s a lot to see. Who thinks to put something like this on a menu?”

“It’s the only way French toast is forgivable _in_ France,” Bruce replied. “It’s up to you.”

“Have you ever poked around Montmartre, or did your chaperones deem you too young at the time?” Jeremiah asked. “I’d like to start there.”

“I’ve been to Sacré-Cœur,” Bruce said. “That overlooks the entire neighborhood, doesn’t it?”

With an encouraging smile, Jeremiah nodded. He wondered about the merits of dragging Bruce back upstairs until he was in a better mood.

“C’est tout pour le moment,” he told their server when she returned. “Merci, c’est vraiment gentil de votre part.”

Until that point, the young woman’s expression had been neutral. This time, she broke into a grin that was equal parts eager and manic.

“Monsieur Valeska, if it would be…” She huffed anxiously, turning away to compose herself, and then tried again. “If it’s not rude, may I bring you something to sign? You see, I am—I study—pourquoi est-ce si difficile? Desolée. Architecture and engineering. I follow your building projects in Gotham. I was thrilled to find out the identity of Xander Wilde.”

While Jeremiah stared at her, indecisive on how to react, Bruce hid his mouth behind his hand.

The server turned to face Bruce, as if chagrined to have ignored him. “Monsieur Wayne, I—”

“It’s no trouble,” said Bruce, with that easy affability he could summon from nowhere. “Go on.”

Jeremiah removed his napkin from his lap and folded it, realizing they shouldn’t risk the girl’s supervisor witnessing the exchange and deciding it was her fault. He inclined his head, impressed his uncovered eyes didn’t rattle her.

“Whatever it is you have, bring it sometime before the end of our stay,” he said. “I’ll sign it.”

Just before they stepped out of the hotel, one of their dedicated concierges waylaid Bruce and pressed a parcel on him. Even though the man said nothing, Bruce wasn’t surprised. During their twenty-minute ride to the 18th Arrondissement, Jeremiah watched him unwrap the knives. 

Campolin Automatics would serve, even if likely to prove superfluous given their warm welcome.

Bruce’s relative silence for most of the day meant that Jeremiah could pause to sketch and to take photographs wherever he pleased. Fortunate, given that there was something noteworthy around every corner.

During lunch, they were recognized by a middle-aged Canadian couple. Jeremiah was getting used to doing most of the talking.

By dusk, once they had eaten in a fashionable side-street brasserie, enough was enough. 

Jeremiah coaxed Bruce back up the stairs to the basilica’s cobblestone observation area.

“This is the highest point in the city,” he said, whisking Bruce into a box-step to the music they could hear from far below. “I owe you a dance.”

Startled, Bruce found his footing quickly. He nodded and relaxed into motion, otherwise silent for a few graceful rounds before taking control.

“Ecc— _Ms._ Eccles, Harley,” Jeremiah hissed, correcting himself in frustration, “always liked to dance. I’m glad Ivy can oblige her.”

“Must’ve been excellent practice,” Bruce said. “You let yourself be led as well as you can lead.”

“It’d be sad if we weren’t versatile,” said Jeremiah, bringing them to a standstill. “I’d let you rule me in all things, but where’d be the fun in that?”

Bruce shook his head, lowering his eyes until they rested on the white rose in Jeremiah’s lapel.

“We— _no_ , I tried that, remember,” he said in a low, self-castigating tone. “It…didn’t work.”

Jeremiah tilted Bruce’s chin up, helplessly dazzled by how he looked in the imitation gaslight.

“You do realize I would’ve killed you if I hadn’t been willing?” he asked with sincere gravitas. 

“We both would’ve died. You know I would’ve turned the knife on you before my last breath.”

Leaning forward, Jeremiah was relieved to be met halfway. He kissed Bruce with the kind of hunger he’d felt the night that changed everything, the night he’d stood above Gotham’s glittering skyline—when, against all logic, Bruce hadn’t tried to run.

“And you know I would’ve killed us in one flick of a switch any number of times, dear heart.”

Bruce smiled at that, something that once would’ve been unthinkable. “Beside you or not at all.”

Jeremiah pulled him closer than ever, swaying them where they lingered. “I’ll hold you to that.”


	5. Actual Aesthetic Appeal

After spending three more days on Jeremiah’s penchant for modern art—with visits to the Centre Pompidou, Musée d’Art Moderne, and Palais de Tokyo—Bruce insisted on rest. They slept late, and, on waking, rekindled the fervor to which they’d clung in the months before reunification. 

Chest pressed flush against Jeremiah’s back, each thrust achingly deep, Bruce stroked over Jeremiah’s scars and whispered feverish praise. He removed the cock ring only once Jeremiah, reduced to delirious pleading, couldn’t withstand another climax.

Afterward, wrecked and content, Jeremiah traced the fine mark on Bruce’s cheek with reverence.

Bruce dozed while Jeremiah responded to Martín’s texts, tucked snugly beneath Jeremiah’s arm.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have told him about the airport,” Jeremiah said at length, idly concerned.

“What about it?” Bruce asked, lifting his head. “He’d be glad to hear people admire your work.”

“That inconsiderate security officer,” Jeremiah clarified, “with the unwarranted wandering eye.”

Making a grab for the phone, Bruce tilted the screen in his direction while Jeremiah shrugged.

 _That’s not nice. Not_  
_professional, either. I’ll_  
_make a few inquiries._

“First of all, what thirteen-year-old uses that kind of language?” Jeremiah asked in proud dismay.

“I can’t blame him for wanting to amend the insult,” Bruce said, releasing the phone, “but I’m worried he’ll actually try something. Tell Ed.”

Jeremiah heaved a put-upon sigh, thumbs moving fast over the screen. “Way to ruin the mood.”

Bruce gave him a halfhearted shove and closed his eyes, snuggling back against his shoulder.

Once they’d ordered room service, eaten, and showered, Jeremiah’s restless enthusiasm returned. He pressed for a half-day at the Louvre, knowing full well Bruce was both keenly interested in the collections and hoped to make multiple visits during their trip.

The fifteen-minute walk was pleasant, if riddled with more attention aimed at them than ever.

Jeremiah delayed their entry, brusquely examining the Pyramide before deciding he wanted to walk the interior periphery of the Cour Carrée. His demeanor suggested fascinated distaste.

“Impressive from a construction standpoint, _but_ —” Jeremiah frowned as they continued to stroll “—ugly in photographs, and even uglier in person.”

“The pyramid or the palace?” Bruce asked, releasing Jeremiah’s arm so he could take a photo.

“Both,” Jeremiah said, lowering his phone. He pulled his glasses down the bridge of his nose and squinted at the ornamental arches closest to them. “I admire the repurposing of edifices, but this one’s had so many alterations and additions that it’s incoherent.”

Bruce put his hands in his pockets and turned to face the fountain. “There’s never any water.”

“Shut off and drained because too many people kept wading in it,” Jeremiah replied absently.

“You must be thrilled to finally see things you’ve only ever read about,” Bruce said, walking back to stand beside him while he photographed the Pavillon de l’Horloge. “I like seeing you happy.”

“I’d like to see _you_ happy the rest of the time we’re here,” said Jeremiah, taking one last shot.

Bumping Jeremiah’s shoulder companionably with his own, Bruce nodded. “I already am.”

Jeremiah pocketed his phone, replaced his glasses, and leaned in close for a brief, chaste kiss.

“Do you think we should go the usual gift-shop route,” he murmured, “or steal him something?”

Bruce adjusted Jeremiah’s hat, blinking at him. “What do you mean? We didn’t plan for a heist.”

“Martín,” Jeremiah said, rolling his eyes. “You have a point, I guess. We’re too ill-prepared.”

“Besides,” Bruce said, taking his arm as they continued, “if he wants an artifact, there are dealers everywhere. We can get him whatever he wants.”

“Everyone knows the Louvre has the best of the best,” Jeremiah said wistfully. “Not the same.”

Bruce glanced at a small group of tourists that seemed too interested in their approach. They went back to chatting among themselves, chagrined.

“Maybe next time,” he said, slowing them to a stop as they reached the point where they began.

“Tell him to start researching the holdings,” Jeremiah said, tongue-in-cheek now. “Make up his mind.”

“What would you choose?” Bruce asked, absolutely serious now. “Out of everything held here.”

“It’s not like we’ve even started glass-case shopping,” Jeremiah quipped, and then went quiet.

“Sorry,” Bruce said, checking his watch. “Then we should get started. We have a few hours.”

“The trouble is, the _Mona Lisa_ ’s rather unremarkable,” Jeremiah pronounced thoughtfully.

“I wouldn’t hang that on our wall, either,” Bruce agreed. “That’s too early for your taste.”

“Not for yours,” Jeremiah countered. “That’s not the only piece by Leonardo on offer.”

“I’d target something they don’t display often,” said Bruce. “One of the sketches, I think.”

“Don’t they have the portrait of Isabella d’Este? It has actual aesthetic appeal in comparison.”

“That means they probably display it a lot,” Bruce pointed out. “Come on, are we going in?”

Jeremiah looked thoughtful, even a touch contrary. “Maybe we should start fresh tomorrow.”

“You’re the one who pushed for this,” Bruce reminded him, tempted to laugh. “What’s wrong?”

“I’d almost rather a late lunch somewhere,” Jeremiah confessed. “Decided I’d rather look at you.”

“And keep working on our theoretical collection?” Bruce said, loving the pink cast to his cheeks.

Seemingly on impulse, Jermiah caught Bruce around the waist and pulled them front to front.

“The longer I keep you talking,” he said in a low, possessive tone, “the better tonight will be.”

“Oh, is _that_ all I had to do?” Bruce asked, taking his turn to flush. “Talk for hours?”

“All you had to do was exist,” Jeremiah told him with alacrity, “but let’s not split hairs.”

An especially bright camera-flash went off somewhere to their left, but Bruce didn’t attempt to call out the culprit this time. They had been out and about enough that caring who saw them or captured them on film was a losing battle.

Turning his head, Jeremiah grinned at the figure wielding the camera, dazzling and dangerous.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, “but we’ll probably be on the cover of _Paris Match_ tomorrow.”


	6. Something You Don't Mind Ruining

Jeremiah signed the front of the glossy tri-fold while Aurélie cleared the remnants of their dinner. First, _X.W._ , and then _J.V. Wayne_. He offered the marker to Bruce, given the brochure related to design and construction on Wayne Plaza.

“Amazing what you can find on eBay,” Bruce said, signing one of the images on the interior.

“Your hair,” Aurélie said. “I saw you dyed it last week after the _Match_ photos came out. It…” She took the brochure. “Looks greenish in the light.”

“Call it a lark,” Jeremiah replied, winking at her. “I wanted to see what people would say.”

Once she’d thanked them profusely and left, he noticed how Bruce had been looking at him.

“Don’t tell me this is a repeat of breakfast a couple days after we got here,” Jeremiah sighed.

“I was trying to imagine what life would have been like if we’d stayed at odds,” Bruce said.

“Hell,” said Jeremiah, shrugging to hide his slight discomfiture, “or Heaven. Who can say?”

As soon as they were in the suite, Jeremiah led Bruce to the bedroom. He closed the door behind them, pinned Bruce against it, and kissed him.

“Take off your clothes and get on the bed,” Jeremiah murmured. “I want to try something.”

“Then you’re keeping yours on,” Bruce countered, already unbuttoning his shirt. “Either that or put on something you don’t mind ruining.”

Jeremiah removed his tie, jacket, and waistcoat. “Is this dressed enough for your taste?” he asked, rolling his sleeves before he removed his watch.

Bruce had shed his top layers on the floor and was already pulling off his socks. “I think so.”

Before Bruce could finish, Jeremiah backed him against the edge of the mattress and ran his hands from Bruce’s shoulders to his wrists. He unfastened Bruce’s trousers, pushing them down off his hips. He kissed Bruce’s neck, kneading at the smooth skin of his waist. 

Bruce toyed with Jeremiah’s pendant, perhaps in response to Jeremiah’s lips brushing his chain.

Stepping away was difficult, but Jeremiah fetched his sketchbook and pencil while Bruce shed his last few garments. He situated himself in the plush, grey-velvet armless chair off to one side.

“On your stomach,” Jeremiah instructed. “Arms draped over however many pillows you want. I need you looking at the headboard, in profile.”

Bruce was a model subject for the first fifteen minutes, which let Jeremiah capture the broad-strokes baseline. Thereafter, he started to fidget—fingers picking at pillowcases and bed-linens, feet twitching against the duvet. He turned his head, studying Jeremiah.

Jeremiah stopped sketching just long enough to use his pencil to point sternly at the headboard.

Bruce smiled into the pillows. “I didn’t even have to ask you to draw me like one of your—”

“Would you please be quiet,” snapped Jeremiah, in mildly-aroused aggravation, “and hold still?”

Bruce snorted and sat up, scattering the pillows in defiance. “You can pick this up later, right?”

“Why ask me to wear something I don’t mind ruining?” Jeremiah challenged. “Think I can’t control myself while you’re all the way over there?”

“That’s just it, I know you can,” Bruce said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, “but what if I asked you to touch yourself?”

Jeremiah swallowed hard, suppressing a frisson. “You must be planning one hell of a show.”

Bruce shrugged, lashes lowered as he glanced down at his hands on his thighs. “We’ve established I’m not great at this, so I’ll keep it simple.”

Jeremiah watched Bruce close his eyes and release his breath on a hiss as he stroked himself with his right hand and ran the fingers of his left from collarbone to bellybutton. He was unfairly beautiful, had been from the first moment Jeremiah had set eyes on him. He opened his eyes and held Jeremiah’s gaze, unblinking, as he rubbed at one nipple and then the other.

“You’re an appalling liar,” said Jeremiah, shakily. He forced himself not to rush over unfastening his trousers, spurred by the hunger in Bruce’s unwavering gaze. “You…” He hesitated, his breath hitching as he hardened in his own fist. “Bruce, just look…”

“I know,” Bruce said tautly, letting his left hand drop to the mattress as he started to stroke himself in earnest. “Look what you do to _me_.”

“Dear heart,” Jeremiah rasped, too proud to reach for him or be the first to cave in. “I want to feel you, hear you moan right in my ear when—”

Bruce was in Jeremiah’s lap faster than he’d anticipated, giving them a few spine-melting strokes together before winding his arms around Jeremiah’s neck. He was close, not even trying to stifle the sounds he was making against Jeremiah’s ear.

“Bruce,” Jeremiah whispered, pushing against the warm, delicious weight of him, “you should’ve told me _you_ wanted to ruin…”

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” Bruce whimpered, shaking as he dampened the front of Jeremiah’s shirt. “ _Oh_ God. Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah came gasping, helplessly jerking up against him. He dug his nails into Bruce’s back.

Rocking into each other for as long as they could stand to prolong the aftershocks was exquisite. Bruce’s startled bursts of breath made Jeremiah seize under him with a fresh jolt of pleasure—the reminder of his first time in Bruce’s arms as searing a thrill as ever.

“That,” Bruce managed, nuzzling Jeremiah’s neck as he recovered, “was a really good idea.”

Jeremiah nodded in faint agreement, fussing with Bruce’s hair. “Not to be a buzz-kill, but can we move? I’d like to ditch these clothes.”

Several minutes later, naked and drowsy, they turned out the lights and got into bed. The sheets were as fine as the ones they had at home.

“We should visit Notre-Dame tomorrow,” Bruce said, tugging Jeremiah’s arm around his middle. “I’ve always wanted to climb the bell tower.”

“Heights and I don’t always get along,” Jeremiah yawned, squeezing him. “Hold me tight?” 

Bruce ran his palm along Jeremiah’s forearm, finally grasping his hand. “You know I will.”


	7. Beside Me Or Not At All

Bruce had been trying for the better part of half an hour to get back to sleep, because Jeremiah’s breathing was still slow and even. He rested his cheek against Jeremiah’s shoulder, soaking in the moment of contentment.

“Screw waiting for retirement,” Jeremiah mumbled groggily, shifting closer so Bruce could spoon him for warmth. “Let’s just stay.”

“I wish,” said Bruce. “This is our last full day. Is there anything you want to do that we haven’t?”

Half-asleep or not, Jeremiah was uncharacteristically tense and quiet for the next few minutes.

“There’s something,” he said at length, “but last time we even came close, we avoided the issue.”

“Père Lachaise is nothing like Stoker,” Bruce said. “I only avoided cutting through the day we took that walk because you seemed—”

“Do you understand,” Jeremiah demanded, “what I meant when I said that even I have regrets?”

Bruce pressed his mouth between Jeremiah’s shoulder blades, shaking him in mild frustration.

“You don’t like that I get hung up on our first night. I don’t like that you get hung up on this.”

Jeremiah struggled out of Bruce’s embrace and rolled to face him, shaking Bruce in return.

“I could have killed you,” he said, eyes wide and desolate. “It was the _last_ thing I wanted—”

“Some of the blame’s mine!” Bruce said, stilling them both. “I’m sure that I forced your hand.”

Jeremiah sagged until their foreheads touched, caressing Bruce’s cheek. “If I had told you…”

Bruce kissed him softly on the mouth. “There’s no changing who we are. Nothing worked until we stopped fighting it. Stopped fighting each other.”

“I should never have said I wanted to change you,” he whispered. “Just that I wanted to _see_ …”

Bruce brushed at Jeremiah’s closed eyes, amazed to find a trace of tears. The closest they’d come to seeing each other cry had been— _oh_. Had been that day in Stoker, and then again the night Bruce had cut Jeremiah loose from the headboard and fled.

“Jeremiah,” Bruce said, tucking his head against Jeremiah’s shoulder, holding him. “You did.”

“Did what?” Jeremiah muttered, nonetheless clinging for all he was worth. “I don’t follow.”

“See me,” Bruce told him. “And you were asking me to see you, too. I wasn’t having it.”

“Fine,” Jeremiah sighed, sounding more steady, “but I still could have killed you when—”

“You shot low on purpose,” Bruce said. “Both times. I believed it then, and I believe it now.”

Jeremiah took an even breath, already calmer. “At a subconscious level, that was likely true.”

“Come on,” Bruce said, tugging at Jeremiah’s elbow. “We need to eat before we go anywhere.”

After breakfast in bed, Bruce called their driver to inform her of their destination. He hung up and went to join Jeremiah in the shower, where they spent twice as much time as was necessary by practical standards, but exactly as much as they needed.

Their driver dropped them near the cemetery’s Gambetta entrance at Jeremiah’s insistence.

“I’m not sentimental about any of the famous graves,” Bruce said as they strolled through the gate. “I didn’t appreciate this when I was young.”

“The website bills this as the most hauntingly romantic walk in Paris,” Jeremiah said, turning them left on the Avenue Circulaire with a sense of purpose. “I’d feel ridiculous if we didn’t take advantage. The architecture alone is worth seeing.”

“Where are we going?” Bruce asked, dashing to keep pace as Jeremiah took his hand. “We didn’t pick up a map. I’m just following you.”

“No need,” Jeremiah said, choosing the second right turn they encountered. “I memorized it.”

“The entire map?” Bruce asked in amusement, understanding as they came to a halt before Oscar Wilde’s infamous, walled-in monument.

“Several points of interest, from tacky—” Jeremiah gestured at the lipstick-marks on the glass barrier “—to sublime. I’m not kissing that.”

“Shame,” Bruce said, watching Jeremiah take a perfunctory photo. “You wore your best shade. Pity if you let it go to waste.”

Jeremiah darted his tongue absently across his lower lip as he removed and pocketed his glasses. “You’re wearing enough of it by secondhand exposure, so maybe you should do the honors.”

Bruce made a face and shoved his elbow playfully into Jeremiah’s side. “That’s disgusting.”

Jeremiah shot him a wry sidelong glance. “We’ve both done things decidedly less hygienic.”

“Grow up,” Bruce said, tugging his arm. “So, if that’s tacky, what do you consider sublime?”

“We could take the long way around,” Jeremiah offered, “or the meandering way through.”

“We’ll see more if we cut through,” said Bruce. “Are you sure you remember the route?”

Jeremiah dragged him along the Avenue Carette, accepting the challenge without hesitation.

“I was designing mazes more difficult to navigate by the time I was six,” he replied smugly.

They passed an eclectic array of personalities along the way—from René Lalique, whose glasswork Alfred had always loved, to Gustave Doré, whose paintings Jeremiah had admired in the Musée d’Orsay. Their final destination was unexpected.

“Depending on what you believe,” Jeremiah said, leading Bruce right up to the iron fence surrounding what looked like a Gothic cathedral turret in miniature, “it’s less the _where_ that matters, and more the _with whom_.”

Bruce studied the monument to Héloïse and Abélard, his thoughts falling abruptly on his parents.

“I haven’t shown you,” he said with difficulty, “but there’s a mausoleum on the Manor grounds.”

“I know,” Jeremiah said, stroking the back of Bruce’s hand. “I decided not to go looking.”

“Why?” Bruce asked. “You had every opportunity. Did you want to wait until I was ready?”

Jeremiah, who’d scarcely blinked since he set eyes on the fabled lovers’ resting place, shrugged.

“I wanted to earn it, _but_ —I know now that some of my dinner planning was…tasteless.”

Turning from the monument, Bruce took Jeremiah’s face in both hands and kissed him soundly.

“Beside me or not at all,” he said. “Who cares what we’ve earned or haven’t. It’s where you belong.”


End file.
